Джеффри Арчер - And Thereby Hangs a Tale

A man was lying flat on his back on the floor, his arms and legs pinned down by the two men he’d seen getting into the lift, while the youth he’d spotted on the motorbike was holding a kitchen knife above the man’s head. All around the room were large blown-up photographs of the devastation caused by the 7/7 bus and tube bombings that had recently appeared on the front pages of every national newspaper. The moment the youth spotted Arnold staring at him, he walked quickly across the room and closed the door.

For a moment, Arnold just stood there shaking, unsure what to do next. Should he run downstairs and tell Dennis what he’d witnessed, or make a dash for the relative safety of his apartment and call the police?

Hearing what sounded like a roar of laughter coming from inside the apartment, Arnold ran across to his front door, fumbled for his keys and attempted to push his office Yale into the lock, while continually looking over his shoulder. When he eventually found the right key, he was so nervous he tried to force it in upside down and ended up dropping it on the floor. He picked it up and managed to open the door with his third attempt.

Once Arnold was inside he quickly double-bolted the door and put the safety chain in place, although he still didn’t feel safe. When he’d caught his breath, he dragged the largest chair in the room across the floor and rammed it up against the door, then collapsed into it, trembling, as he tried to think what he should do next.

He thought again about phoning the police, but then became fearful that the man would discover who had reported him and the kitchen knife would end up hovering above his head. And when the police raided the building, a fight might break out in the corridor. How many innocent people would become involved? Mr Zebari would surely open his door to find out what was going on and come face to face with the terrorists. It was a risk Arnold wasn’t willing to take.

Several minutes passed, and as he could hear nothing happening outside, Arnold nipped across to the sideboard and shakily poured himself a large whisky. He drank it down in two gulps, then poured himself another before slumping back into the chair, clinging on to the bottle. He took another gulp of whisky, more than he usually drank in a week, but his heart was still pounding. He sat there, his shirt saturated with sweat, terrified to move, until the sun had disappeared behind the highest building. He took another swig, and then another, until he finally passed out.

Arnold couldn’t be sure how many hours he’d slept, but he woke with a start when the clickety-clack of the first tube could be heard rumbling below him. He saw the empty bottle of whisky lying on the floor by his feet and tried to sober up. In the cold, clear light of morning, he knew exactly what his mother would expect him to do.

When the time came for him to leave for work, he tentatively pulled the heavy chair back a few inches, then placed an ear against the door. Were the men standing outside in the corridor waiting for him to come out? He unlocked the door without making the slightest sound and slowly removed the safety chain. He waited for some time before gingerly opening the door an inch, and then another inch, before peeping into the corridor. He was greeted by silence and no sign of anyone.

Arnold took off his shoes, stepped out into the corridor, closed the door quietly behind him and tiptoed slowly towards the lift, never once taking his eyes off the door on the other side of the corridor. There was no sound coming from inside, and he wondered if they’d panicked and made a run for it. He jabbed at the lift button several times, and it seemed to take forever before the doors finally slid open. He jumped inside and pressed G, but even when the doors had closed, he didn’t feel safe. By the time the lift reached the ground floor he’d put his shoes back on and tied the laces. When the doors slid open he ran out of the building, not even looking in Dennis’s direction when he said, ‘Good morning.’ He didn’t stop running until he had reached the bank. Arnold opened the front door with the correct key and quickly stepped inside, setting off the alarm. It was the first time he’d had to turn it off.

Arnold went straight to the lavatory, and when he looked at himself in the mirror two bleary red eyes in an unshaven face stared back at him. He tidied himself up as best he could before creeping into his office. He hoped that when the staff arrived, not too many of them would notice that he hadn’t shaved and was wearing the same clothes as he had worn the day before.

He sat at his desk and began to write down everything he’d witnessed during the past month, going into particular detail when it came to what had taken place the night before. Once he’d finished, he sat staring into space for some time before he picked up the phone on his desk and dialled 999.

‘Emergency services, which service do you require?’ said a cool voice.

‘Police please,’ said Arnold, trying not to sound nervous. He heard a click, then another voice came on the line and said, ‘Police service. What is the nature of your emergency?’

Arnold looked down at the pad in front of him, and read out the statement he had just prepared. ‘My name is Arnold Pennyworthy. I need to speak to a senior police officer, as I have some important information concerning the possibility of a serious crime having been committed, in which terrorists may be involved.’

Another click, another voice, this time with a name. ‘Control room. Inspector Newhouse.’

Arnold read his statement a second time, word for word.

‘Could you be a little more specific, sir?’ the inspector asked. Once Arnold had told him the details, the officer said, ‘Hold on, please, sir. I’m going to put you through to a colleague at Scotland Yard.’

Another line, another voice, another name. ‘Sergeant Roberts speaking. How can I help?’

Arnold repeated his prepared statement a third time.

‘I think it may be wise, sir, if you didn’t say too much more over the phone,’ suggested Roberts. ‘I’d prefer to come and see you so we can discuss it in person.’

Arnold didn’t realize that this suggestion was used to get rid of crank callers and those who simply wanted to waste police time.

‘That’s fine by me,’ he said, ‘but I’d prefer it if you visited me at the bank rather than my apartment.’

‘I quite understand, sir. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’

‘But you don’t know the address.’

‘We know your address, sir,’ said Sergeant Roberts without explanation.

Arnold didn’t leave his office that morning, even to carry out his usual check on the tellers. Instead, he busied himself opening the post and checking his emails. There were several phone messages he should have responded to, but they could wait until the man from Scotland Yard had come and gone.

Arnold was pacing up and down in his office when there was a tap on the door.

‘There’s a Sergeant Roberts to see you,’ said his surprised-looking secretary. ‘Says he has an appointment.’

‘Show him in, Diane,’ said Arnold, ‘and make sure that we’re not disturbed.’

Arnold’s secretary stood aside to allow a tall, smartly dressed young man to enter the office. She closed the door behind him.

The sergeant introduced himself and the two men shook hands before he produced his warrant card.

‘Would you like a tea or coffee, Sergeant Roberts?’ Arnold asked after he had carefully checked the card.

‘No, thank you, sir,’ the sergeant replied, sitting down opposite Arnold and opening a notebook.

‘Where shall I start?’ said Arnold.

‘Why don’t you take me through exactly what you saw taking place, Mr Pennyworthy. Don’t spare me any details, however irrelevant you may consider they are.’